


Snippets

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse, DCU AU
Genre: M/M, Wedding Planner AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is a young, pretty renowned wedding planner and he’s contacted about planning the wedding of Dick Grayson and his fiancée, that should take place at the Wayne Manor. These are basically just the three main JayTim scenes set in a bigger story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snippets

**Author's Note:**

> Tim is a young, pretty renowned wedding planner and he’s contacted about planning the wedding of Dick Grayson and his fiancée, that should take place at the Wayne Manor. 
> 
> Of course, Tim accepts, since this is a huge offer and a chance no one from his business would pass up. At the Wayne Manor he meets – aside from Dick, Bruce, Alfred and everyone else – Jason.
> 
> For some reason – which will be revealed – Jason doesn’t like him much at first. So the story is basically about Tim and the family preparing the wedding and dealing with trouble, while he tries to somehow sort out his relationship with Jason.

The shift of air is what gives him away, the curtains puffing out under the breeze like two sails, see-through and salty, the sound of his steps swept by the wind to land between Tim’s shoulder blades, his presence a nudge that tenses in knots across his back, uncomfortable and guarded.

Tim looks up from the mess of colored papers, some of the glossy patterns melting unfocused dots down his wrists and across his palms and involuntarily, Jason’s eyes drift to them, memorizing the translucent luminescence.

The moment – the mute, defined beauty of it – passes when Tim raises his hand to hide the soft curve of strands curling along his jaw behind his ear, turning sideways, his knees peeking out from the chair’s edges and even in the early, raw summer heat he’s wearing jeans, snug and expensive.

“Dick told me to give you this,” Jason throws a heavy, worn album on the table and Tim’s papers stir, rush out from under his loose hands. 

Tim’s eyebrow crooks but his expression slips like the strips of color and his graceless reaction is more stubbornness than instinct, quick and defiant, the papers snatched in mid motion, tucked back into his palms before they can skid down onto the floor, before Jason can truly enjoy Tim’s fluster. 

Tim turns to scowl into Jason’s general – annoyingly handsome – direction but from this close, he feels like a petulant child scolding a giant, his neck exposed with the uncomfortable angle, chin pushed up too high. 

Jason’s hips and belly are few feet from Tim’s face; a sight Tim couldn’t avoid if he lowered his gaze or his chin; a thin, tanned gasp of skin slitting through the inch of space between Jason’s shorts and t-shirt, something Tim refuses to let his eyes linger on. 

“He couldn’t give it to you himself, had an early meeting,” Jason explains, lazily jerking his shoulder as if to point at the album instead of his hands that were tucked into his pocket already. 

Tim picks the album up, the heavy weight a vague surprise, and without putting it down, he turns back to his papers. “Alright, I’ll take a look at it right away. Thanks.” He lowers it on the table before him, fingers rubbing the worn leather, the aged patterns as intricate as fingerprints, as the insides of a leaf.

Jason doesn’t answer and his shadow disappears from the tips of Tim’s fingers, from the side of his shoulder, the length of his thigh. The sun warms the shadowed spots immediately, swims across Tim’s skin like the heat of a lit up fireplace. 

Casting a look at the window and the pale, blooming flowers of the garden, Tim decides to at least _try_. Try and talk to Jason, even if the man’s displeasure – or perhaps just _indifference_ ; which hurts more to admit? – is easy to see on his mouth, on his body whenever he spots Tim in the room, outside the window. (It has been there since the week before, since the day Tim showed up in the Manor for the preparations. It has been there since the moment Tim opened his mouth.)

Despite this; Tim addresses him, sets his lungs for a friendly, mellow tone. “Hey. Do you by any chance know if Dick likes dark purple?” he asks, turning his head as far as he can, as much as is needed for his gaze to reach Jason again.

Jason stops in the doorway, his profile sharp but soft around his lips and eyes, stark and smooth, easy to trace. (But hard to translate.) “How the hell would I know? I’m not the guy that’s supposed to plan his wedding,” he answers and the floor creaks as he shifts his weight, waiting for Tim to – to give up, probably. 

“But you’re his brother?” Tim tries again, shifting so his forearm can rest on the top rail of the wooden chair, so he can face Jason without waking up any neck pains. “I thought that maybe you would like to help.”

“Right; help,” Jason mutters. Something cold slips down his stomach, something sour. “Weddings are dumb anyway. Why dress up for signing a simple paper? Why look like someone you aren’t? Why waste so much money? It’s just a way for people to show off, most of the time.”He scowls, his shoulders tense, pronounced under the tight, dark cotton. 

Tim nearly says: _That’s pretty bitter_ ; nearly loses it to the sudden need to defense his job, but he has learned: where things are bitter, they are usually sore too.

“That’s why you dislike me so much?” he asks instead. “Because my job is based on something you think is dumb?” 

And perhaps Tim’s voice is more incredulous than neutral; perhaps _that’s_ what makes Jason stagger.

(If he says yes, it will only complete the circle of inevitable returning points of dumbness: dumb things lead to dumb reactions which lead to dumb – but painfully real, _sharp_ – feelings, which inevitably lead to dumb _things_ and dumb _reactions_ again –

ah, fuck it.)

“Yeah. Maybe. Not to mention your _reputation_.”

“My reputation?” Tim’s brows furrow and since Jason is facing him now, three steps into the room again, Jason sees that the confusion is genuine, pulled from inside of Tim’s thoughts and not from the shallow, intended pretense of his skin, not something carefully faked. 

“Yep. I’ve heard people say that you’re bad luck. And after looking you up, I have to agree. If you look back at all those couples you’ve worked for: how many of them have stayed together? Two? Three? I’ve read that one man even tried to kill his wife a month after the ceremony.” 

Jason’s arms cross his chest, protective, _shielding_ – _you’re bad luck_ – and Tim feels too vulnerable, small on the low chair. 

(Jumpy like it might collapse under him, like it might get kicked from under his weight.

It happened before; these kinds of pranks.

And as sad as it is: _You’re bad luck_ isn’t new to him either.) 

“I’m there to let them enjoy a perfect wedding, not a perfect marriage,” Tim says curtly; defense hardening his words to glass, harmless but loud, clattering against his teeth. 

He doesn’t let Jason breathe in; doesn’t hesitate to meet, to take in his expression. And before Jason can react, Tim continues. “If I’m completely honest with you: I don’t care. It’s not my problem if they don’t love each other, or if the husband is a cheating scumbag. It’s sad, yes. And of course, I would rather see their marriages work out too. But if I would be that picky, I would be living on the streets. Because as banal as it sounds: at the end of the day, it’s just a job. Something I do for money. True; I can afford to be more picky now – and trust me that I am – but I’m not naïve enough to believe a perfect wedding can save a relationship, a whole marriage nonetheless.” 

The cut off, undercurrent noises of Gotham and Wayne Manor’s garden invades the pause, the soft nothing between them, soaking into the floor and cascading down the furniture, too nice for the atmosphere they’re lost in, too sluggish for their rush.

But with the sounds, within the movement and sudden stillness: something is growing between them too. It feels fresh, _clean_ ; like a truce, the dirty things washed off from their palms. 

(Rinsed off from their hair.)

“I wouldn’t worry about your brother’s marriage. It’s pretty plain to see they’re crazy about each other,” Tim says, and if there was anything to break – anything at _all_ –, Tim’s sure it would.

“I just don’t want you to fuck it up. I don’t want _anyone_ to fuck them up,” Jason grumbles, embarrassed and annoyed at being caught caring, at admitting something so personal, _intimate_ to Tim of all people; out of everyone he didn’t admit things to.

(So hey: it seems like something _did_ break.

Something that Tim doesn’t regret shattering.)

“That’s the last thing I want,” he responds, thinks of the warm affection between the couple, between Dick and _everyone_ he likes. “And no: not because of the money or reputation. But because your brother is the first person who has treated me with some kind of respect,” Tim adds softly; turns around in his seat and hunches above the table again. 

He hears Jason’s feet shuffle on the carpet, hesitate.

“If you’re free tonight around six, spare me Dick’s whining and have dinner with us. He’s starting to get annoying as fuck about that,” Jason says and leaves the room, the echo of his steps disappearing under the corners and creaks of the house. 

Tim smiles. 

\---

“What do you mean you can’t deliver them? The reception is today!” Tim bursts out, rushed and dazed yet faint in the width of the living room; the phone in his palm pressed to his ear too tightly, as if the transition is hushed, distorted by some clamorous noise or as if he can’t believe the words are quite right, as if he’s certain they got tangled up in the space between the phone and his ear. The unpleasant, achy emotion rings clearer than the loudness of it and it’s the thing that alerts Jason to Tim first: not Tim’s outline against the window, not his words, not the empty, unseeing gaze he keeps focused on the swirls etched into the carpet. 

No. 

It’s the subdued, raw undercurrent of panic. 

“I understand that there was a storm but can’t you – no reserves. No time either.” Tim sighs, rubs his forehead with two of his fingers, slow, a small attempt to get the hectic, anxious rush out of his blood.

“No, we can’t replace them. It needs to be this specific kind of fish. No, I’m. _I’m_ sorry. It’s not your fault, Mr. Meyers. Thanks for letting me know this early. Good luck with the repair.” 

Tim ends the call and slumps into the couch, the slight bounce of his fall ignored as he covers his face with his hands, a tiny groan slipping past the heels of his palms.

Jason moves from the doorway to the middle of the room without Tim hearing and within ten seconds, Tim’s moving too; briefly contemplating the digital clock of his phone, before he takes his address book out of the pocket of his jeans and flips through the pages; quickly opening his laptop that's sleeping on the table, Gotham City’s map on its screen in a minute.

“We still have five contacts…” Tim murmurs, seemingly collected again but Jason recognizes the minute tremble in his fingers as he types, his eyes darting across Gotham’s districts a touch too quickly, a second too short for the words to fully register. 

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Jason plops down on the couch next to Tim, snatching the address book from under his hands, the spot where it lied on Tim’s thighs suddenly empty, the covers of the address book idly warm, Tim’s heat clinging to its plastic skin.

“What – _Jason_?” Tim blinks at him; startled and confused in such a sudden, immediate way that would be fucking _hilarious_ on anyone else, but Tim Drake; Tim Drake totally rocks it.

Jason rolls his eyes, as if to say _Who else?_ but doesn’t look directly into Tim’s again, avoids the disbelief that stings, somewhere close to his ribs.

“What a _surprise_ ; it’s not like I live here,” he adds, murmurs against the cup of coffee he lifts to his mouth; takes a gulp or two to let the bitter, outlandish flavour sink in.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks, uncertain if he should steal his address book back or if it’s okay to let Jason have it, if it’s alright to – to trust him with something that’s his.

(Has been for years; from the day his Dad handed him the softly packed gifts, sheepishly scratching his nape, embarrassed but happy, late but there.) 

“What do you _think_ ,” Jason says, hums as he looks at the contacts and briefly glances at Gotham’s layout, a satisfied smirk soaking his lips. “You need the food to be here in about an hour, right?” He turns to Tim, and with the pull of their weights, their knees are almost touching, their elbows inches away. 

(It stops a beat inside Tim’s chest, steals it and drops and finds it again, stuck under his throat, his words out of sync, stumbling across his heart.)

“Yes,” he confirms; scoots away from the possible touch. “But for _that_ I need that address book. Could you maybe give it back? I’m really in no mood for jokes.”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” Jason scowls, closing the address book around his finger, holding it in place. “Just shut up and listen. You’re going to drive us to Parker’s, while I’ll call the owner and handle the rest. It’s the shop by the docks, so we need to hurry the fuck up.”

Jason stands up and tugs at Tim’s wrist, until Tim pockets his phone and follows him to the hall where he takes his summer jacket, his keys hidden inside along with his wallet.

“Are you going to explain somewhere between that?” He asks as he opens the front door but Jason shushes him, punching out a number on his phone, the rugged, fresh grace of him not letting Jason stumble, not letting him slip even if he’s not watching his steps or the uneven grounds at all.

The person he’s calling – probably; _hopefully_ – Mr. Parker, picks up at the third ring when Jason has the seatbelt secured around his chest already, sitting next to Tim, the driveway a smudge of colour around them, a pant of grungy sounds under their feet.

“Hi, Mr. Parker,” Jason greets the quiet smear of a voice, looks out at the fading sunrise. (It silently stains the car’s interior, all the way up their necks, from Tim's shoulders to Jason's.) “This is Jay; Jay Todd. Do you think I could maybe ask for one of those favors?” He smiles, so softly Tim thinks it’s maybe just a stray dot of light, maybe something Jason used to have as a kid.

(Whatever it is, whatever it _used_ to be – it gives Tim a tiny boost of confidence. It gives him something to anchor around.)

When they return not even fifty minutes later, Tim quite unceremoniously going to the coffee machine first, warming up his near frozen fingers – he stubbornly insisted on helping moving the cold boxes, his wiry arms surprisingly strong, tight in their grip – a bit of the pale anxiety seems to finally fall off his skin, thaw under the soft relief.

He leans on the kitchen counter and with curios, tentative undertones in his face, he speaks, the syllables following Jason all the way to the corner of the room. “Thank you. For helping me,” he says, the tinny whir of the house, of the _machines_ accompanying the stir of his voice. 

Jason’s not facing the curves of Tim’s silhouette but sees their echo out of the corner of his eye, can imagine them between his lowered lashes. “Don’t misunderstand,” he says, distant from the boy that talked about a childhood of streets and nights covered by shallow pools of lights, of nights with rare warmth, old blankets pulled tight. (That boy is back in places Tim is unwanted in, in places Tim is just an intruder of.) “I was just trying to help my brother,” he finishes, toying with the papery, fragile hem of a napkin.

Tim refills his mug to the top again, gingerly holding it close. “I know. But you could have let me stew in the mess a lot longer. So – thank you. For not doing that.” He picks up a napkin in case the coffee would spill and carefully carries the mug to the living room, stopping there to collect his notes.

Jason steals a cookie from the plate in front of him and decides – if a bit unwillingly – that making stupid resolutions might be just that: _stupid_. 

\---

The music travels up his spine, solid and loud under the soles of his shoes, a hush that tingles between his lips, around his neck. 

Behind the borders of the gardens, the sun is setting, the sea’s shapes discolored, the sun like a brush of dye dropped into a bowl of clear water, seeping into the currents, spreading between the waves, between the foam.

Tim spends a few slow, unfocused minutes watching the couple dance in fast but precise swirls, in a rhythm that doesn’t quite agree with the music, with the methodic melody of it but doesn’t look out of place at all; natural and gentle, like Dick’s hands clasped around his partner’s waist, like the closeness between them.

He looks down at the notes in his hands, checking off another task, the remainders just suggestions, _ideas_ , emergency numbers scribbled across the bottom of the page.

With the subdued, simple murmur of the crowd curled around him, he feels secure. Everyone’s focus is settled on the food, the dance floor or the gossip, the company of their friends, and Tim can finally let his shoulder relax; let the subtle tension drip down his sleeves.

The sounds are a mixture of pronounced tones, the chinking of glass and cutlery, crunching gasps of wood and dulled echoes of shoes, so when Jason stops before him, when he says: “Your tie’s crooked.” Tim looks up sharply, his body jumping under Jason’s presence, under his proximity, catching its balance in belated seconds.

Jason reaches for his chest, taking the tie between his fingers and adjusting the soft, satin fabric so it follows the straight line of the buttons of Tim’s shirt, so thin he can feel the texture of Tim’s skin, the hints of protruding bones.

Tim’s _thank you_ seems inadequate, seems wrong to say but it opens on his lips anyway, and it’s like Jason is here with something more to tell, something more to _do_ than making sure Tim is proper and that he’s having _fun_ because –

wait. That might be _it_.

Because Jason moves the notes and pen out of his hands, lowering them on a nearby chair and with a low, theatrical bow and a smirk stitched to his mouth, he asks: “Care for a dance?” snatching Tim’s wrist and tugging him onto the dance floor, into the middle of skirts and suits and dresses, pressing Tim close with a hand firmly anchored on the small of his back, swaying to the paths of the crowd more than to what the songs indicates, what the dance is meant to be. 

Tim protests, meekly; says: “But I’m not even a _guest_! It’s hardly appropriate for me to –” but Jason sweeps the protests away, clenching his fingers placed on Tim’s back in a loose, reassuring squeeze that doesn’t fit, doesn't match the annoyed scowl on his face.

“C’mon, Dick started calling you _little brother_ weeks ago. There’s no fucking way anyone will say anything, okay?” He answers, inches his hand a bit higher up Tim’s spine, up the small arc of his bones.

Tim is quiet and in a half-minute the song ends, the soundless seconds dragging, slowing down the patterns of their feet until they nearly stop, nearly drop the embrace. But thankfully, the music starts anew, lulls them into motion again, pulls rhythm and comfort back into their thoughts, presses them against each other again. It’s then, when the second song surrounds the spaces around them, when Tim asks, gazing more at the shape of Jason’s nose than his eyes. “Jason?” 

“What?” He responds; looking over the top of Tim’s head, more grouchy than anxious, tracing the shapes of Tim’s vertebras with his thumb.

(For a second; Tim closes his eyes.) “Why are you dancing with me? I thought you didn’t like me much,” he says, his hand on Jason’s shoulder curling a bit tighter around the firm, round curve, involuntarily sliding closer.

“I didn’t.” Jason admits. “But things change. So do opinions. I’m not that much of an asshole not to admit that I might’ve been wrong.”

Tim tilts his chin. “ _Wrong_?”

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry for being such an ass to you. But I assure you that I can be quite nice company too, when I try.” He smiles, glances at Tim’s face and then quickly looks to the side of Tim's shoulder when he spots the same pleased, warm smile on Tim’s mouth too. 

“Are you trying _now_?” Tim asks and – 

well, Jason can’t help but look down at his shy, smiling face again.

“ _Maybe_.”

(And maybe: maybe it’s working, too.) 

They stay until the third song ends and the band announces a break, the crowd breaking apart but Jason doesn’t let go of Tim’s hand, leads him towards a secluded, small bench, the flowers behind it pale and sweet-scented, faintly quivering under the strength of the summery, slow wind. 

“Hey, can I get you something to drink?” Jason asks, hands tucked back into his pockets, something restless settling into his bones, something jittery filling him up to his ribs, up to his lungs.

“Sure. Lemme think,” Tim answers, biting his mouth. “Some soda, please?” He decides and sits down onto one side of the bench, tucking his legs under it and crossing them at his ankles, leaning on his arms that rest on the edges of the painted wood, right next to his thighs. 

“Roger.” Jason salutes; takes two, three sloppy steps backwards before he stops, the wind mussing up his hair.

“And Tim,” he says, waiting for him to look up again.

“Yes?”

The distance between them vanishes; Jason’s palm is resting in the crook of Tim’s neck, his thumb grazes his chin and then there’s a kiss on Tim’s mouth, warm and soft; gone before he can do more than close his eyes, before he can open them a second later.

(Jason’s gone too, several steps away already, but his touch and his words – they stay.) 

“Think about this too?”


End file.
